


Dulles

by AnythingButPink



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Peril, Not mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve. Martin and Douglas find themselves in the hold at Dulles, flying on fumes... <i>(Things get worse before they get better)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dulles

**Author's Note:**

> Unlikely as it might seem, the initial inspiration for this was [Liberation by the Pet Shop Boys](http://www.youtube.com/watch?hl=en&client=mv-google&gl=GB&v=vtlM1F8guPc). I love the idea of Martin asleep on Douglas's shoulder "all the way back home at midnight". How I got from there to _this?_ \- your guess is as good as mine...
> 
> A certain amount of suspension of disbelief is required to fit two disparate timelines together - I hope you'll indulge me and enjoy the ride.

They were _way_ beyond word games now. Martin was gnawing on his bottom lip and Douglas's shoulders were rigid with tension. There was no sound beyond the roaring wind and Gerti's engines. Dulles tower was silent and the chatter between the planes circling the airport had died down as the gravity of the situation had sunk in.

The snow battering the windshield was making Martin's eyes hurt, but glancing down at the instrument panel made his stomach lurch with anxiety. He was hoping with a frantic desperation that Arthur had been right about there always being a little bit of fuel left when the gauge shows red, and feeling horribly regretful at his snapped remark about Vauxhall Corsas and stupid people. There was a too-real possibility he was never going to see Arthur again.

And if the lack of fuel didn't kill them, the lack of altimeters would probably do the job instead...

He didn't want to die, he really didn't, but oddly it was the thought of someone telling Arthur and Carolyn that her pilots were dead that made tears prickle his eyes. He cleared them away under the pretext of rubbing the bridge of his nose before Douglas could see.

Suddenly a static crackle rattled in their headphones and both men startled in their seats.

An American voice drawled across the airwaves: "MJN flight 114, this is Dulles approach. Do you copy?"

"D-D-Dulles, this is MJN 114. What's going on? Where have you been?"

"MJN 114, Dulles approach, we've been right here all along, old buddy. Our systems only came back on line just this very second. MJN 114, you are cleared for ILS approach, runway two-niner. Contact Dulles tower frequency at the outer marker."

Martin turned a panicked look on his first officer. Douglas did his best to smile reassuringly and directed his authoritative baritone to the ATC. "Good-oh, Dulles. Not a moment too soon. We're flying on fumes up here."

"Roger 114, understand. Calibrate Dulles altimeter setting two-niner-niner-two."

Something snapped, quietly and gently, in Martin's mind as the certainty of death came sharply into focus. Although, if he was going to go, he would rather be attempting to land blind than simply dropping on to the White House lawn.

"Sorry, Dulles," said Martin, "Mr and Mrs Altimeter are sulking, we won't be landing on instruments. You'll have to talk us in I'm afraid."

Martin could hear the ATC grinning. He'd flown too long with Douglas not to recognise the sound of a smug smile.

"Roger, that. We have radar contact. MJN 114, stand by."

"Dulles, this is MJN 144, inside the outer marker. What is our altitude now?"

"Roger, 114. This is Dulles tower. We have radar contact and show you on ILS. You're in the glide path and looking good at twelve hundred feet."

"Twelve hundred? Are you sure, Dulles? I'm sure we're closer to a thousand. I've been keeping her level since the altimeters failed half an hour ago."

"Well, you're at one thousand _now_ 114."

Martin glanced at Douglas, who for once didn't ridicule or argue or roll his eyes. "Trust your instinct, Martin," he rumbled. "You know Gerti better than they do."

"We'd be better off landing short on the grass because I'm wrong than slamming into the concrete because we're too low, right?"

"To be honest, Martin, none of the available options are very tempting, but you're the captain, you have control and I trust you." He paused, smiled and slapped a hand on Martin's shoulders. "Whatever happens it'll be the landing of a lifetime."

The voice was almost crooning in his ear now, "Looking good, 114. Now, watch it, 30-knot crosswinds and the runway is icy. 400ft, you're too high, 114, you need to listen to me or you're gonna overshoot. Attaboy, we've gotcha. We've gotcha..."

Martin ripped off the headphones and stared through the whirling snow into the pitch darkness. A tiny flicker of light was moving ahead of them. It looked like two yellow flames waving back and forth... it must be someone on the runway. Martin swallowed, listened to his inner altimeter and continued his descent.

For a moment he could just see a man, apparently wearing a duffle coat like the one he used to have at primary school, frantically waving two flaming torches on the runway. Then he turned all of his concentration to bringing Gerti to a standstill as she slid gracefully through the snow, her tail weaving from side to side like an ice skater. With a pirouette, the plane finally stopped, well short of the end of the runway.

Martin was trembling, a faint sheen of sweat on his face, eyes shut and hands gripping the controls as if his life still depended on it. He thought he could hear tinny swearing and shouting from the headphones lying in his lap. He ignored the noise and concentrated on not throwing up.

Douglas was now looking more terrified than he had been in the air. He ripped off his headphones and snapped off his seatbelt. He shook Martin by the shoulder. "Martin," he hissed, "we have to get out of here."

Martin woozily opened his eyes. "Did I break her?"

Douglas shook his head. "No, Martin, against all probabilities Gerti is fine. But we won't be if we don't move now. Come on!" He reached down to unbuckle Martin, who frowned at Douglas's hand in his lap, and pulled the captain to his feet.

Douglas opened the flight deck door and hauled Martin towards the cabin door. He flinched as it was wrenched open from the outside and four men, dressed in black, pointed a variety of guns in their direction.

The man who had opened the door, an athletic-looking type with slicked back dark hair and a handgun, spoke, "Welcome to Washington. We have arranged transportation for you and your crew, if you'd like to follow me..."

"We have no crew," snarled Douglas. "And if you're expecting our CEO to pay any kind of ransom you're going to be very disappointed. She barely pays us to actually fly for her."

The man smiled unpleasantly, "Oh no, gentlemen, please don't think of yourselves as hostages..."

Douglas barked a laugh devoid of any mirth. "I knew Americans were fond of their guns," he snapped, "but I didn't realise they had taken to welcoming their 'guests' with a display of their weaponry. Aren't we the lucky ones?"

Martin could feel the anger radiating off his first officer as he leaned on him for support and gave Douglas's shoulder a friendly squeeze. He was so busy enjoying this unexpected intimacy that he didn't see the man step forward and smack the butt of his gun into Douglas's cheek until it was too late. Douglas yelped and Martin shouted.

"The pair of you need to shut the fuck up and get in the goddamn car," spat the man. Douglas, one hand grasping his bleeding face, the other wrapped around Martin, glared at the terrorist and started to help Martin down to the ground.

***

A few hundred feet away, the duffel-coated man was lying on his front in the snow watching. He had watched slack-jawed with disbelief as the plane had slammed on to the runway and skated away from him in one piece. "Christ, those are some lucky sons of bitches!" he had muttered. He had been about to approach the plane when he had spotted the vehicle driving towards them. He thrust the torches into the snow to extinguish them and threw himself to the frozen ground.

He watched as the pilots clambered down from the plane and staggered towards one of the two Range Rovers the bad guys had turned up in. Their hands were pulled behind their backs and secured, before they were manhandled into the back seats.

"What would you like for Christmas this year, John?" he muttered mock-conversationally, "How about another shitload of motherfucking terrorists, John? Aww, that's just what I wanted," he said through gritted teeth, watching the SUVs drive away into the darkness.

***

Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The cable ties were cutting into his flesh, his muscles burned from being held in an unnatural position and he was fucking furious that someone had inflicted such pain on the person he cared for most in the world. He glanced up at Douglas's bleeding cheek and ached to be able to tend to his wound.

Douglas turned to look at him and Martin quickly looked away, afraid his first officer would read his long-held secret in his face. He was reasonably sure that Douglas wouldn't mock him for being gay or even for finding the sky god attractive - he would probably hold that that was the natural order of things - but Douglas was straight (three ex-wives and more stewardesses than Martin could imagine were testament to this) and it would be just too awkward spending hours in the cockpit with an acknowledged and unrequited love filling up the too-small space.

"You all right?" asked Douglas quietly.

"More alive than I had any right to expect. How about you? That looks painful."

Douglas grunted. "I've had worse hangovers."

A tiny smile creased the corners of Martin's mouth. "Good." He suddenly realised this could be taken the wrong way and started flustering in a manner all too-familiar to Douglas, "I mean, not good **good**... it's not good that you've had such terrible hangovers - though I'm not saying it's bad that you were an alcoholic, though obviously that wasn't good either . What I mean to say is that it's just good that you're not in the worst pain ever, obviously. Oh god..." he whimpered.

Despite everything, Douglas laughed quietly and slid closer to Martin. "May I suggest, Sir, that you let me do the talking when we get wherever we're going?"

Martin sighed and looked up into his first officer's damaged, but still handsome face and nodded. "You have control, Douglas."

"Good man," said Douglas and Martin was sure he felt a kiss on the top of his head. When he looked up again though, Douglas was peering nonchalantly out of the window as if they were simply in a taxi on the way home.

***

It was cold in the church. They had been dumped together against a wall and out of the way. There had been a **lot** of cursing when the terrorists discovered they had only one cable tie left. The man in charge, a Colonel Stuart, had looked like he wanted to shoot the messenger, but settled for barking an instruction to use the one tie to secure Douglas's left ankle to Martin's right.

"You sit there and you shut up," he said.

Martin took one look at the man's slightly crazed blue eyes and nodded his assent. Douglas clearly wanted the last word, but the throb in his cheekbone was enough to help him hold his tongue.

***

They had fallen asleep, Martin's head on Douglas's shoulder, and Douglas's head on Martin's auburn curls, but woke to find a bearded man seated in a chair at the other end of the room and having a wounded arm treated. Colonel Stuart handed him a mug, "Our escape plane will be ready in 30 minutes, General."

The general didn't seem thrilled by this news. "There are no more surprises," he said, taking the hot drink from his blond subordinate.

***

Shortly after this, an alarm sounded in the church. "Garber. Sit rep." barked Stuart.

One of his men leaned over a wooden balcony near the roof and reported, "Armed special forces on three sides, closing in fast around back."

"Another problem?" asked the bearded man.

"No problem, general," replied Colonel Stuart, grabbing the magazine of his weapon. "Gentlemen," he addressed the room, "you know what to do."

Around them, the terrorists were swapping magazines and placing armed explosives on the electronic equipment. Martin felt a new wave of terror washing over him and huddled closer to Douglas.

"Sit still and keep quiet," murmured Douglas into his ear. "With any luck they'll forget we're even here."

Martin nodded his acquiescence and as the men started breaking windows and spraying rounds of bullets at the oncoming rescue squad, whispered, "There's still a good chance, especially with my luck being what it is, that I'm going to, well, I might not make it out of here..."

"Martin," interrupted Douglas, "There's no need..."

"No, p-p-please, Douglas, let me finish. This is hard enough. So, anyway, I just wanted to say, in case it's my last chance to say it, you've been the best friend I've ever had and I know that in absolutely every way possible I'm not your type, but..." he stopped speaking, struggling to find the right words.

"How very presumptuous of you, Martin," Douglas's deep voice was tinged with amusement. "I don't think I have a type. No, actually I do. My type," he quirked an eyebrow at Martin, "is somebody who thinks I'm terrific." He winked. "And I do have a penchant for uniforms, though you must have worked _that_ out by now, Captain."

Martin's throat was dry and his cheeks were flushed. Despite the racket of stuttering machine gun fire that raged around them, all he could focus on was Douglas, smiling at him expectantly.

"Well," he said, trying his best to sound authoritative, "as I was trying to say, I think you're, um, terrific."

Douglas rumbled with pleasure, "I have to say, Captain Crieff, it's almost worth having my cheek burst open just to hear you say that."

Suddenly, they realised the noise levels had dropped.

"General, it's time," said Colonel Stuart, shutting down the power on the banks of ATC equipment. The terrorists were pouring out of the back of the church and they could hear the sound of engines being revved up as well as the continued shout of the machine guns.

"Come on, Martin," said Douglas, "I don't know if those explosives have timers, but I don't want to find out the hard way."

They pushed themselves against the wall to get upright and stumbled across the church in a painful parody of a three-legged race. Hands still bound behind their backs they couldn't balance against each other or offer support. Instead Martin offered a marching rhythm that got them to the back door in time to see the duffle-coated man shoot someone off a snowmobile, steal it and chase across a frozen pond into the darkness.

"I keep seeing that guy," said Martin, "he pops up like the Lone Ranger and then disappears again."

"Hmm," said Douglas, "that's a lovely anecdote, but can we keep moving? I could die of hypothermia in my shirtsleeves here or of hyperthermia and concussive injuries and burns if the church blows up. Neither is even slightly attractive."

They resumed their one-two-one-two stagger, heading towards a road and looking for help anywhere away from the battle. They found it in the shape of an elderly lady who was peeking past her curtains at the carnage taking place noisily near her front yard.

She took them in, snipped their bonds and wrapped them each in an orange blanket. "For the shock, my dears," she said kindly and went away to make them a hot drink.

They sat in facing armchairs, next to a roaring fire. The mantelpiece festooned with Christmas cards and decorations, Christmas lights twinkling around the tree and the snow falling, still falling outside. A picture of domestic and festive bliss - apart from the blood smeared across their shirts and Douglas's contused and bleeding face.

"I can't believe we came out of that alive," said Martin. "I have never been so sure I was going to die."

"Obviously," drawled Douglas, a smug smile on his face.

Martin's heart sank. Douglas had just been playing along to keep him from panicking. Now he was going to tease Martin mercilessly until the end of time. He shrank into the armchair, face flushed with embarrassment.

"Martin?"

It took every ounce of courage he had to look up at Douglas over his blanket. Douglas felt his heart constrict with affection at the sight, "I meant what I said back there, you know. It wasn't one of my schemes. Though it may yet qualify as me doing something clever and making everything all right." He smirked at Martin.

"R-r-really, Douglas?"

"Really." He stretched out a leg and brushed his foot against Martin's, making the younger man curl his toes inside his socks and sending his whole face scarlet.

"It was definitely worth experiencing the most terrifying night of my life just to hear you say that," said Martin quietly.

And then the house shook, the sky outside turned orange and the air was filled with the sound of a fully-fuelled jumbo jet exploding.

Martin flung himself out of his armchair and into Douglas's lap. "Ooof!" breathed the first officer, before wrapping his arms around Martin. "Don't worry, we're safe now," he murmured into the messy tangle of auburn curls. "I've got you."

***

It had been gone half eleven when Douglas and Martin were finally allowed to climb into the back of a taxi by the police. Douglas told the driver which hotel they were staying in and sank back into the seat. Martin leaned in against him, breathing in the musky, wood-smoky, lemony smell that tantalised him everyday in the cockpit, and threaded his fingers through Douglas's. "Thank you," he whispered.

"What for?" asked Douglas.

"Liberating me," he mumbled, eyes drooping, muscles slackening and, yes, Douglas smiled, as he heard Martin snoring the softest of snores. "You're very welcome, Martin. Thank _you_ for changing my mind again. Merry Christmas, darling boy." He kissed Martin's forehead again and sat back to wait for Christmas Day as Martin slept, all the way to the hotel, on his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> _(I still don't know how I went from the Pet Shop Boys to Die Hard 2... Hope you liked it nonetheless.)_


End file.
